


heresy

by honeybakedgrace



Series: to heretics and their devotions [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Assassin!Atsumu, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Prince!Sakusa, bickering as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23529037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedgrace/pseuds/honeybakedgrace
Summary: “I’d like to see that,” Kiyoomi jokes, a cheeky grin curling up the corners of his lips. Atsumu closes the gap, slowly, then all at once, until they can feel the other’s breath on their lips.“It's too bad,” Atsumu trails off, eyes cast onto Kiyoomi’s exposed neck.“Too bad?”“Too bad,” Atsumu echoes, “in another life, maybe I coulda shown ya.”
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: to heretics and their devotions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1770271
Comments: 35
Kudos: 449
Collections: SakuAtsu Week 2020, ~SakuAtsu~





	heresy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bastigod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastigod/gifts).



> Happy SakuAtsu Week!! This is my work for Day 2 of SakuAtsu Week, inspired by the prompt: Masks/Hiding. 
> 
> This fic is dedicated to [Basti](https://twitter.com/andraste_/status/1247545618706374710?s=20), who did an INCREDIBLE artwork for this work and has kept me motivated throughout the entire process. Thank you so much Jo for doing the beta work on this beast and getting it in publishing shape! 
> 
> Enjoy!

**__**

**_Ozawa Castle, Wrenia, Sakusa Kingdom_**

 **  
**

 _Any last words, Kiyoomi?_

The slip of wax-sealed parchment arrived by the claws of a ragged peregrine falcon. How his supposed killer knew that he spent his mornings curled up on the balcony of the west tower, Kiyoomi had no idea. But alas, in his black morning robes, sweater up to the neck, and hands bare— the only time of day that they were exposed—the letter drifted down from the opened claws of the feral creature, dropping squarely onto the prince’s breakfast. Now Kiyoomi was truly irate. Not only did this stranger non-consensually involve him in a rivalry he was truly indifferent to, but their unkempt beast had soiled his perfectly fine biscuit and coffee. How intolerable. 

Threats often reached, but rarely breached, the castle’s walls. To threaten the life of a prince, especially the public darling and political elite Kiyoomi Sakusa, was one thing. To dump one onto his breakfast on the balcony of his personal tower, was entirely another. 

Hence why, wound so tight you could hear the spring grinding in his spine, Kiyoomi Sakusa burst into the King and Queen’s quarters, parchment crumpled up into a white-knuckle fist. He tossed it onto their small table, and his mother unfolded the abused thing. 

“We’re having a ball,” he declared through clenched teeth, the muscle of his jaw clenched so tight it was fit to snap, “a _masquerade_ ball.” The King and Queen’s concern was diluted by bemusement of their son’s sudden fit of muted rage. It was beyond uncommon for Kiyoomi to show any kind of emotion in excess, especially anger. 

The couple shared an amused glance, and his mother just nodded, “If that’s what you want.” Taken aback at the coolness with which his parents received his audacious and blatant demand, Kiyoomi blinked, his face falling blank. 

“You aren’t going to tell me no, or try and talk me out of it?” The Queen shook her head, laying the letter back down on the table. 

“You have to learn how to deal with these things on your own, and I believe in our guard to take care of you as you do.” 

Kiyoomi expected some pushback at which he could exorcise the strange tightness inside his chest. With his impulsive request so readily granted, the strain in his lungs continued to pull taut.

... 

Prince Kiyoomi, never one to be daunted by such petty threats, holds the ball not despite the letter, but in spite of it. Although usually averted to such public and en mass gatherings, the only thing that irked Kiyoomi Sakusa more than all the unpleasant things that go only with human contact was at the other end of that letter.  
In his childhood, other children would bicker and fight, and that was perfecting fine with the young prince, as long as they left him out of their constant and repetitive pissing contests. That was another perk of royalty: no one questioned his wishes.

Few of his peers ever dared to hold their ground, likely because they didn’t know who Kiyoomi was. Still, even without his title, something in Kiyoomi’s essence bled with status. Attendants and advisors acknowledged him as they would the King and Queen, without saying a word he commanded it. Something between the paces of his near-silent gate, or in the cool, full-bodied and thoughtful pauses before he spoke in a tone so low you’d have to lean in to listen demanded the kind of attention one would only show to royalty. 

Consequently, without even realizing it Kiyoomi had grown accustomed to getting what he wanted. You wouldn’t call it spoiled per se, while he was fussy it wasn’t about things of monetary value like most children of royalty. He didn’t care for lavish presents or fine silks, he only wanted boundaries. In the castle, attendants would avoid touching him completely, he need only ask. If he wanted to wear leather gloves from the moment he dressed to the second his head hit the pillow, no one would question it. Should he desire to spend his day in the solitary utopia of his bedroom, not a soul would bother him. Inside the safety of his family’s castle, stuck into the side of Dunmont Mountain range overlooking the capital city of the Sakusa Kingdom, Wrenia, he lived to his comfort level. Outside, Kiyoomi was at the mercy of people who didn’t know or care about the very explicit niche he existed within. 

The masquerade Kiyoomi so meticulously planned over the course of a fortnight served a two-fold purpose. The first was to bare his chest proudly, to show his unaffected demeanor had remained just that, unaffected. Large royal events were idealized locations for assassination, especially ones where the attendees were drunk off their asses in full-face masks. At least he had been told this once. The second was one he kept to himself. Kiyoomi wanted so badly to taunt the little menace, to dare them to assassinate him. Reckless? Most definitely, but for one of the few times in his sheltered life, Kiyoomi had an interest, something that kept him up at night. It was thrilling, he thought, to have a worthy challenger. 

The second note arrived exactly a week later. This one he found contaminating his pillowcase, at which point he considered that leaving his bedroom window open was a poor decision. One finger at a time Kiyoomi removed his gloves, laying them on his desk across the room. He inspected the letter visually at first, paying special attention to wrinkles along the edge of the parchment, likely indicative of previous wetness. In his mind, he liked to think it was perspiration. Inexplicably he was aroused at the idea of making the enemy break into a sweat. 

Gingerly, Kiyoomi ran his long, bony fingers over the seal. As if he hadn’t spent the last week examining an identical one under the sharpest magnifying glasses, he noted each facet of the stamp. It showed a perfectly depicted Dahlia surrounded by a half-formed wreath of Thyme. In the fluttering candlelight, the inky black wax caught the flame and reflected it back in soft beams onto Kiyoomi’s face. The prince paused momentarily to pull his candle closer, as the moon began to peek from behind the mountain peak out his balcony. He swiftly picked it up, running the pad of his index finger along the edges once more for good measure before slipping his thumb under the fold, the wax seal peeling off in one satisfying _pop_. The entire experience was strangely erotic, in the capacity that Kiyoomi could consider something erotic. Still, in running his soft thumb over its glossy surface, he couldn’t help but feel something stirring inside him. 

_A ball? You shouldn’t have. I hope you’ll save me the last dance, Omi._

Kiyoomi frowned at the term of endearment. For some reason, “Omi” didn’t fit into the strangely cut and painted puzzle of his fantasy. In his mind, they would call him Kiyoomi, which rolled much better off the tongue of a smooth-talking criminal elite. Omi was so harsh, nothing elegant or glamourous about it. It wasn’t like any of the books he had poured over through the years. With this one phrase, Kiyoomi’s mood soured. 

He quickly folded the letter back up and tossed it from his window, _try again_. 

The third note came in the dead of night, the night before the ball. Lit only by the dim crescent moon hanging in the sky, the prince awoke to the same grim-looking falcon perched on top of his bedpost. Kiyoomi sighed heavily at the mere thought of the need to cleanse the bed. 

Between the bird’s beak, was another letter sealed with the same wax stamp, but on less immaculate stationary. The godforsaken bird dropped the letter squarely onto Kiyoomi’s scrunched up face, causing him to jolt up immediately, the letter flying across the silken bedsheets. In a puff of feathers with a grating caw, the falcon took flight off his bedpost. 

With fury raging wild in his chest, he impulsively grasped a fistful of his down feather pillow and chucked it at the departing bird, whiffing completely as the beast careened out Kiyoomi’s open window. As it did, Kiyoomi lept out of bed and rushed to the window, desperately trying to track the bird’s movement. But, in the pitch darkness, it was impossible to make out. 

Without deliberation, he reached for the nearest object, which in this case, happened to be a book detailing star patterns and constellations. Winding up he sent the book hurdling out into the empty night air, dead still save for his ungodly grunt. Not pausing to listen for contact, Kiyoomi slammed the window shut and locked it. At a time like this, it was lucky Kiyoomi had his own tower to himself. Otherwise, attendants and nobles would have been rudely awoken by the crown prince, soon to be King of the most influential kingdom on the continent, throwing a piss baby tantrum. 

It began by him kicking his desk chair, sending it clattering across the wooden floor. In a huff, Kiyoomi yanked his sheet entirely off his bed and grasped the letter, crumpling the parchment into a stiff fist. He ripped open the seal and scrawled inside in _much_ less ornate and elegant script:

_You’re a real fussy son of a bitch, you know that Omi-Omi?_

“Oh you… you...” Kiyoomi tossed the letter to the floor, bringing his hands up to grasp fistfuls of his tousled hair, “you insolent bastard, pitiful little prick—” the string of swears grew more colorful and extensive until his voice was worn to a croak. At this point, he sprawled out on his back, sinking slowly into his own bed, wishing it would swallow him whole. How in the span of 2 weeks this unnamed asshole had infiltrated a mortifying amount of his waking hours, Kiyoomi had no clue. Never in his life had a single sentence riled him up quite like that. 

All he could process was how Omi-Omi was so many thousands of times worse than Omi, and how Omi was so many thousands of times worse than Kiyoomi. What he would give to see his full name etched in that syrupy script again. 

Kiyoomi stared at the ceiling for what felt like days, trying desperately to exorcise whatever demon filled his chest with honey and blooming mallow at the promise of murder. Eventually, he dozed off into a fitful dream state, where his mind filled with images of his own name spelled out in opulent calligraphy.

——————————

**__**

**_Outside Wrenia, 4 days before the first letter_**

 **  
**

Even with the winter sun’s weak rays beating down, January’s chill nipped fiercely at Atsumu’s cheeks, causing him to burrow his chin down into the thick fur draped across his chest. Osamu, on the other hand, braved the morning’s bite and let it dust pink across the tip of his nose, eyes lazily scanning the market.

Their post just outside Wrenia, the capital city of the Sakusa family’s empire, was situated in slums knowing only destitution. In the single muddy strip of market stalls, the brothers clad in lush otter pelts and burgundy dyed leathers reeked of wealth. Atsumu detested this particular site for more reasons than even he had the energy to rattle off, but in particular, the eerily deliberate silence made him itch from the inside out. 

It had been by Osamu’s hand that The Darkwell Company assassin’s guild had scattered their forces across the kingdom, abandoning their capital city headquarters in hopes of dodging the slowly but steadily mounting military forces in Wrenia. For the guild, it had been working splendidly. Though the locals may not have been partial to the presence of the guild in their streets, it was far more preferable to the crown up their asses. In a tentative and unspoken treaty, they agreed to cohabitate.

For Atsumu this meant he would be spending an indefinite future sloshing through snow-melted and muddy pathways the locals dared to call streets. He would’ve cursed whatever entity in the sky that had damned him to such a fate, but if he had she’d have probably brained him over the head with the pommel of her sword for disrespect. The twin’s mother, Hikari Miya, had come to power in her youth, much like her eldest son will in the coming months. Eldest by 7 minutes, but who’s counting really?

In truth, if Atsumu had been the one born 7 minutes before his brother, Hikari would have simply lied. She had committed far worse atrocities in her lifetime, and nothing meant more to her than her most precious offspring of all: The Darkwell Company. The brothers knew Hikari’s love for them went only as far as their own success within the guild. This meant by a long margin Osamu was her crown jewel, and Atsumu was the crust stuck in the tread of her boot. Atsumu didn’t care— he did care but damned if he’d ever let her know— he was undeterred in his warpath towards overtaking Osamu to lead Darkwell. Osamu didn’t even want to govern, but whether or not Hikari was too dense to recognize his blatant indifference, it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Hikari’s motherly love ceased where Atsumu and Osamu’s personal aspirations began. The twins were nothing if not profitable mechanisms and the instant those mechanisms weren’t wired for her purposes, they were waste clogging her well-oiled machine. 

This made it all the more infuriating how instinctual the work was to Osamu. His diligence and discretion, both qualities absent from Atsumu, made him the obvious heir to their mother’s throne. Osamu was polite, well-mannered, everything a good “prince” should be. Atsumu always chuckled at the term “prince” ascribed to such an operation. Surely Sir Kiyoomi wasn’t floundering around in the muck, surely he was tucked neatly away in his tall tower, watching Atsumu’s suffering from a clinical distance. 

It settled under his skin like nothing else, the insurmountable gap between us versus them. As tall as the prince’s tower, it was a birthright to live like royalty. Atsumu knew better than anyone that the things you carry into this world don’t have a habit of just disappearing or changing, but it didn’t stop him from wishing that he’d got a slice of the good life for himself. 

Hence why on that mid-January morning he’d dragged Osamu out of bed to attend Darkwell’s weekly meeting 10 minutes early. Hikari had been up for hours; her body was on some strange mutant clock where she wouldn’t even wait for the sun to rise before waking. Finding her 10 minutes before the meeting wandering around the encampment with purpose was certain. 

“What exactly do ya need me fer?” Osamu grumbled, burrowing his hands even deeper into his pockets. “Ya need me ta talk fer ya now?” 

“No,” Atsumu quipped, just barely baring his teeth in a sneer, “She just ain’t so damn sharp when yer around.” 

Osamu scoffed, catching a glance of Atsumu’s twisted frown in his periphery, “Ya think she won’t bite yer head off jus’ cause ‘m there? Ya really are thick in the head ‘Sumu.” 

“Ah shaddup ya know what I meant when I said it,” Atsumu snapped, his words, just like the morning’s chill, not biting Osamu quite as harshly as he would have liked. 

The twins reached the end of the market stalls, the last peddler subtly pushing his pile of rusted and worthless wares an inch forward as they did. Atsumu eyed the trinkets with a grimace. He was tempted to buy something out of pity, but a show of softness wouldn’t be an ideal way to get on his mother’s good side. So, he moved past with intention, deliberately clicking his tongue in distaste as he went. 

The encampment itself was nothing but a large quilt of material scraps sewn together over the claimed area, only marked as theirs by the lantern swinging gently back and forth from its post outside. The only sign of Darkwell was etched into the bottom of this lantern, a roughly carved dahlia in a wreath of thyme.

Hikari was making slow, thoughtful circles around the slow-burning fire in the center of the tent. Her shoulders rolled back, elbows drawn tightly to her side as she held her hands clasped over her stomach. The twins stood at attention upon entering, maintaining a respectful 6 or 7-foot gap between them and their mother until permitted to approach further. When Hikari caught the sight of them in her periphery, she turned sharply on the heel to face them directly, the fire simmering weakly at her feet. Osamu and Atsumu dipped their heads in a shallow bow. With a nod, Hikari gave permission,

“Why are the two of you here?” Hikari made a half-circle back around the fire pit to meet them, her gaze unfocused and bored, but her steps deliberate. 

“We have a meetin’ this morning, no?” Osamu piped up, having already caught the sway of Atsumu’s body flickering in the corner of his vision. Atsumu would never admit that Hikari made him quiver like an autumn leaf clinging dearly to its last fibers, but he didn’t need to; Osamu would never judge him for that. 

“There will be,” Hikari lifted her hand, the bend of her elbow just barely pulling back her sleeve to reveal a pristine silver watch, “in 9 minutes. I’ve never known _either_ of you to be early,” her eyes settled wickedly onto Atsumu. Atsumu, under his mother’s sinister eye, filled his chest with a cloud of ashy air, clenching his jaw like it drilled his feet into the ground. _No running away._

“It’s due time I get an assignment,” Atsumu demanded in a violent exhale, like the only way to force the words out is to let them tumble forth on their own. “I haven’t been out in months, an I’m more than capable!” Hikari’s pursed lips gave way to an amused smirk as she rested her chin on her closed fist. 

“Atsumu you are doing great work here,” she drawled, the knowing quirk in her brow telling otherwise. “Do you think you’re above the work we do here?” 

“No, but I know tha I can do better if you jus’ give me a job,” Atsumu urged. 

“What kind of job would I give you Atsumu?” patronizing as it is honest, even Osamu felt the dull pain in his chest. Hikari looked on at Atsumu with a smile dripping in pity. _How pathetic_ , it said. 

“Any job!” Atsumu plowed ahead, “I can do any of em! I could kill the damn crown prince if ya asked me to—” 

“Alright,” Hikari quipped, finally folding her arms over her chest, checkmate. 

“What?” Osamu involuntarily asked, eyeing Hikari for any indication of humor. 

“What?” Atsumu echoed. 

“The prince, that is your assignment. The crown prince, young Kiyoomi Sakusa himself.” Hikari lifted a finger to brush stray ash from her cheek, “should be no problem for my so _capable_ son, I think.” Hikari didn’t bother to entertain the twins’ wide eyes and dropped jaws as she continued her methodical path around the fire, the embers glowing golden over half-lidded pupils. 

Atsumu fell back one step, then another, and another until he stumbled backward from the tent, Osamu following soon after in a rush. 

“Now look what ya did,” Osamu snapped, taking Atsumu’s arm in a stiff grip. 

“What? I can kill a prince, I ain’ worried,” he scoffed with a crack in his voice. 

“Well unless yer goin’ through puberty again,” Osamu hissed, “I think yer worried, ‘Sumu.” 

“What the hell else choice do I have, ‘Samu?” Atsumu grumbled, squaring his shoulders to adjust the furs gone askew. “Besides, if anyone can do it, it’s me,” he jabbed a thumb into his puffed chest, “more importantly, not _you_ , ‘Samu.” Osamu’s critical expression didn’t waver, just hung there until Atsumu lost interest in the staring contest. 

“Whatever ‘Samu, judge all ya want, when I’m the one Ma passes on the family business to, you’ll regret not askin’ her for a job sooner.” 

“Do ya really think that’s what she wants from ya?” Osamu queried, eyes still dark and teeth gritted. 

“Well, what tha hell else could she want?” Atsumu crossed his arms tightly against his chest and stuck his chin out and up in triumph. “I’m tellin’ ya, after I off the prince, I’ll be the only choice as tha _heir_.” He slurred it out like a swear, scrunching up his nose at the bitter and briny taste it left in the back of his throat. 

“Whatever, ‘Sumu. Whatever ya say.” 

... 

Turns out, even for someone as non-discrete as Atsumu, sneaking up onto the castle walls to get a view at the prince’s personal balcony was quite simple. In just 2 days, he’d committed to memory the guard schedules around the western and southern facing walls, the corner at which Prince Kiyoomi’s tower was so neatly situated. Of course, it would be as far back from overlooking the city as possible, Atsumu thought bitterly. Adding insult to injury, the single balcony nearly 60 feet up faced away from the castle altogether, instead casting its view over the jagged and snow-dipped mountains extending for miles in the other direction. 

“Talk about turning a blind eye, eh Tsu’?” The white-bellied falcon eyed him with boredom; even his animals couldn’t be bothered to keep up with his rambling. “Well whatta you know?” Atsumu snapped meanly, pouting his bottom lip. He pulled up the small glass eye to his vision once more, and sure enough, the figure clothed in black morning robes with a mop of curls was lazily picking through a meal. It'd be impossible to make out his features at this distance, even if he was facing Atsumu head-on. Atsumu pocketed the glass eye and in return retrieved the freshly sealed parchment. 

“Alright Tsu’ just drop it right on his breakfast, eh?” Atsumu’s precious falcon, Tsubasa, was unsettlingly intelligent. When coupled with the fact that Atsumu spent most of his training teaching Tsubasa how to follow very strange but specific delivery commands, Tsubasa was strangely effective on that day. Twenty-three years of finding niche and strangely personal ways to bother Osamu through any and all channels available to him had prepared Atsumu for this moment. Atsumu nudged the letter forward, and the falcon accepted it between its beak. With a powerful downstroke, the falcon lifted off into the sky, leaving Atsumu perched on the side of a smaller tower roof alone. 

Atsumu pulled his glass eye back up to watch in satisfaction as Tsubasa coasted overhead, delivering the letter onto the prince’s breakfast. He caught a glimpse of the prince slowly lifting the letter and sliding his long fingers under the wax seal before Tsubasa dug his talons into the thickly layered leather on Atsumu’s outstretched arm. 

“Probably best we get goin’,” Atsumu caught a final and fleeting glance at the prince hastily pushing back his hair and disappearing inside on his descent, unable to resist the creeping smirk from making the prince toss his chair back in such an aggressive manner. 

The next time he was crouched on the slanted roof was a week later, just as dusk was sending streaks of grey and purple across the orange horizon. It was an hour he was certain the prince would be preoccupied, either with his evening bath or finishing with dinner in the main hall. Whether or not Atsumu had his every waking hour down point for point, he’d come to learn that most royals follow a very specific and orderly outline, especially those without _real_ duties. 

The masquerade invitation buried deeply into his coat pocket with his next letter, Atsumu self-satisfiedly plucked the letter forth in his slightly sweat dampened palm, once again holding it up to the falcon’s beak. 

“On his pillow this time. That outta stir 'em up, huh, getting his sheets all dirty?” Tsubasa took flight into the sky filled with fleeting light. Atsumu pretended not to feel the slight pickup in the pace of his heart. This time was different; there was no absolute certainty that the prince wasn’t waiting inside, no certainty that the prince would read the letter at all, no certainty that it would so perfectly ruffle his feathers quite like last time. 

Sure it would have been sufficient to just send one letter. Atsumu had gotten exactly the reaction he so desired from a target, defiance. The push and pull were addictive for him, it was no fun if they just laid down and died or made it hard enough that Atsumu actually had to work for it. The prince was not such a tiresome or tedious hit; he’d stomped his pristine little heel into the wooden floor, bitten back, with a masquerade ball no less.

It would be rude of Atsumu not to match blows. 

He’d planned to leave as soon as Tsubasa returned, but even after the falcon had its talons dug into his shoulder, settling in place with a shiver, Atsumu couldn’t bring himself to scale back down the tower. So he waited.

Staying crouched in plain sight was a risk, even if he had maneuvered himself around the dome-shaped peak to shield himself from the guards. But still, he couldn’t bring himself to go, he had to know. Any sign of contact would do, just something to know his mark had hit. In about half an hour, Atsumu got his wish, his thighs beginning to heat up under the stress of squatting for so long. 

Tsubasa perked up at the flicker of a candle, drawing Atsumu’s eyes to the warm glow filling the prince’s chambers. Atsumu held his shallow breath for a few beats, 

“Let’s see how Prince Omi-” Atsumu words were cut short with the drop of his jaw as he watched the parchment go sailing out of the tower window. 

“Sonavabitch!” Atsumu clamored, momentarily losing his balance and sliding down the slick rook a foot or so. “Bastard! I bring a handwritten letter all tha way to his doorstep and he throws it out tha window?” Tsubasa, unbothered and uncomprehending blinked twice when Atsumu cast him an incredulous glare. “What are ya lookin’ at, stupid bird,” he huffed, a cloud of frosty breath swallowing the visage of the tower before him. “Next time, I’ll make him writhe, that’s fer damn sure.” 

The third occasion Atsumu found himself clinging to the slippery side of the westward tower’s rooftop was another week later, the evening before the ball itself. In the meantime, Atsumu had acquired himself formal dress wear and purchased a fresh pelt for his cloak. The mask he’d decided on was a terrifying thing he’d kept in his quarters. He told Osamu it was a sacred treasure, but when Osamu pressed the subject, Atsumu brushed it away as just a “manly decoration”. 

In truth it was likely a worthless thing, he’d purchased it traveling around the kingdom when they’d been scouting for locations to set up headquarters. A red-faced demon, short thick horns curling upward and, most strikingly, a top row of gnarled teeth at its bottom edge. Worthless or not the mask had an arresting presence about it, just as trenchant as its wearer. 

Tonight he bore the mask, honey-colored eyes peering eagerly from behind almond-shaped slits. Even in the dark, with the sliver of pale moonlight Atsumu could still just barely track Tsubasa sailing into the prince’s open window. 

Moments later, Tsubasa came lurching from the room, a silken pillow hot on his tail. In the dim light, all Atsumu can see is the pale grip of Prince Kiyoomi clutching onto the window sill, features undistinguishable. 

A book soon followed the pillow, then the pale knuckles slammed the window shut with a clatter. Although unintelligible from this distance, Atsumu could hear the fervent shouting as Kiyoomi tore his bedroom apart. 

Atsumu bit down on his bottom lip to suppress the laugh building in his chest. 

_Now this is more like it._

——————————

**__**

**_Ozawa Castle, Wrenia, the day of the ball._**

 **  
**

In the morning, the young prince wakes curled up into only the threadbare sheet still left on his bed. Kiyoomi uncurls his stiff and freezing form, a symphony of grinding joints bringing hushed sounds of pleasure through Kiyoomi’s teeth with the slow arch of his back. Bathing in what meager warmth the pale dawn casts onto his grand mahogany bed, he feels a sting of regret for trashing the one source of warmth in his chambers. Kiyoomi slides off his bed, padding across to his closed window. Even at dawn, the castle is already rife with activity. Servants hurriedly rush across courtyards, down halls, and through chambers; it’s been so long since their last ball Kiyoomi forgot the contagious itch of anticipation contracted from the bustle of preparation.

Balls held by the Sakusa family are rare, especially those where the young prince is not only present but is the honored host. Any events that Kiyoomi was bullied into attending by his mother, with only love in her heart, were spent with Kiyoomi sitting above the action, hands folded neatly in his lap while his eyes focused intently on the ornate detailing of the staircase railing. By this point he’s sure he could recreate the pattern from memory alone. 

Balls were so infrequent that whenever one came around it was certain to be cause for celebration throughout the continent. By virtue of his solitary nature, Prince Kiyoomi’s… development over the last few years has been under much curiosity and prying by the young nobles scattered throughout the kingdom. Expeditiously approaching the age to be wed, it is anyone’s guess what arrangements the king and queen have converged upon. As it stands to the public, the most instrumental prince on the continent is single and showing no signs of taking a partner in the near (or far) future. 

So when the invitations were addressed and dispersed, the hopeful nobles, most notably those that were 7th or 8th in line for a royal seat, were quick to clear their schedules for such an event. As the replies came pouring in, it satisfied Kiyoomi to see that most of the nobility over the 6 kingdoms were to be in attendance. 

“Are you quite sure you’ll be comfortable with this large of an assembly?” His mother, Queen Mari, queries, tilting her head patronizingly to the side in concern. 

“Certain,” Kiyoomi assures her over breakfast, his headspace cluttered with images of the blurry figures swirling carelessly and quickly around him and his pursuer, caught in the eye of their own harrowing storm. 

Even in this fleeting moment of peace from the ceaseless state of organized disarray, Kiyoomi’s heart is aflutter. He only takes a few meager bites of the maple-drizzled oatmeal before hastily and politely excusing himself to his quarters. 

In preparation for the grand evening, Kiyoomi indulges in a boiling hot bath. Cross-legged in the massive washtub, he slowly brings palmsful of scalding water over the skin he’s already scrubbed raw. Kiyoomi luxuriates in its warmth until the water goes tepid and his mind goes slow, the hours stretching in loose, ropey cords drizzling through his splayed fingers. By the time he rises, sallow in color, his robe is already laid expectantly across his now-made bed. The robe itself has been wasting away in one of the tower's lower levels, where his closets are kept. Though he had little justification to wear any of them, it never stopped Kiyoomi from amassing wardrobes abounding with opulent dresses. Days earlier he had descended to his vault to hand-pluck his most recent treasure: a deep indigo-colored chiffon thing freckled with glittering stars. It’s meant to be draped over an open chest, belted at the crook of his hip. Kiyoomi imagined it swathed across the tanned chest of someone more full than himself: hip-cocked with shadows dancing off sweat-slicked muscular arms… but it also looked quite elegant over the thin black fabric of his turtleneck undershirt. 

Kiyoomi brings up the rough weave of his towel to scrunch his dripping curls dry. He gingerly takes a palmful of the thin fabric between his bare fingers, examining the flecks of shimmer with a stern eye. Even at the last second, he is mulling over his pick, but this particular robe is too brilliant to squander. Especially under the golden glow of the sun setting outside, the light dances over its scattered sky of stars.

Not until after he’s already been summoned twice does Kiyoomi finally get ready. When he can hear the bustle of arriving guests far below, he slips into his undershirt: a taut black long sleeve. Over it, the robe and a pair of midnight blue-dyed leather gloves. For his mask, Kiyoomi selects a white oval-shaped mask tight to his face. The mask is adorned with curling golden strokes framing two sharp black eyes, making his eyes seem more cutting than usual. Kiyoomi gently ties the silk ribbon under his hair, adjusting it one final time before examining himself in the mirror. A timid rap on the door tells him his servant has returned with even stricter instructions to make sure the prince is dressed. Mercifully, Kiyoomi throws the door open, and the servant viscerally deflates at the sight of him fully dressed. 

“Prince Kiyoomi, your presence is requested in the Grand Ballroom,” Kiyoomi nods curtly, following the slouching figure down the tower.

...

“Jus’ don’t do anythin’ even more stupid than usual, yeah?” Osamu shouts back into the cabin.

“I won’t! Have a lil faith wontcha ‘Samu?” Atsumu cries out, kicking his foot against the seat behind Osamu. Getting his brother to drive the carriage had been surprisingly easy, Atsumu had decided to pretend it wasn’t out of concern. “I got it all under control, everything according to plan,” Atsumu crosses his propped up legs casually, leaning his head back against the cushy seat in satisfaction. After last night, everything is exactly where he desires, settling a comfortable pleasure into his sternum. 

“Well ya better! Look alive ‘Sumu,” Osamu warns grimly, the carriage slowing its pace. Atsumu brings his feet to the floor and sits upright. He brings the twine around the back of his head and hastily ties the mask in place. 

“All according to plan, ‘Samu,” he mutters under his breath. 

... 

Kiyoomi is met with a flock of guards to escort him across the castle grounds, each one a little too on edge for his own liking. 

_After all this, no chance that he’d try anything before he has his way with me_ , Kiyoomi muses, tucking his chin to his chest so that his tousled curls mask the devilish smirk curling across his smug face. All the same, Kiyoomi keeps with the guards' pace towards the Grand Ballroom with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. 

As he prefers, Kiyoomi is just a hair short of fashionably late: just as the attendees realize he is absent but before they begin asking for him. The prince didn’t care to be right on time for events like this, in truth he usually did it to lean into the notion that he had somewhere else better to be. Kiyoomi knows he can never completely escape, but rubbing his distaste for the whole ordeal in a little suppresses the overwhelming dread of social interaction. 

The guards keep a clinical distance behind the prince upon approaching the entrance, allowing him to bask into the attention of those still slowly filtering in. The scrutiny pricks at the nape of Kiyoomi’s neck, he isn’t as pleased by the limelight quite like others, but he nevertheless takes it in stride. The doormen bow shortly and quickly before parting the groaning wooden doors. With it comes a burst of air warm from the heat of mingling bodies. Kiyoomi enters with a curt nod, the hem of his robes fluttering faintly with each fluid step. 

He’s certain it doesn’t, but when Kiyoomi takes his place at the balcony overlooking the expansive ballroom, hands clutching onto the all too familiar curling and twisting railing, it feels like the swell of the music dies down. It’s surely the blood pounding in his ears, surely the admonishing gaze of some 200 odd nobles bearing down on him all at once making his pale skin flare red… 

“Finally decided ta make yer grand entrance?” A voice drawls from behind him. Kiyoomi barely turns his head back to acknowledge the foreign voice, not rewarding the interaction with a response. “Isnit a little rude ta be late ta yer own party?” The voice persists. 

“I had pressing matters to attend to,” Kiyoomi says, trying to calmly iron out the wrinkles in his temper as his thinning patience folds in on itself, “not that it's any of your business.” 

“Well it’s nice ta see ya finally made it, don’t forget about our dance, huh?” 

“What—” the offhanded warning sends a spidering shiver up Kiyoomi’s back, but when he spins to face the bothersome voice, the balcony is empty. He’s unable to process the weight of the interaction before his mother’s melodic voice raises above the clamor below. 

“Kiyoomi,” Mari coos, scooting in next to him so that just their shoulders are brushing, “I’m sure everyone here is delighted to see you, perhaps you should greet your guests, hm?” 

“Shouldn’t you be inconsolably worried about the threat to my life?” Kiyoomi mumbles. It had been a strange surprise that they had let him hold the ball at all. 

“I trust our guard, I trust you not to do anything foolish, well,” she gestures to the packed ballroom, “anything _more_ foolish than this.” Kiyoomi frowns deeply at the statement. Is it foolish to take on death threats by goading the perpetrator into a false sense of security? Kiyoomi thinks not. 

“I can presume that you won’t do anything much more foolish…” Mari tilts her head to the side, in that maternal and condescending way she does, to look up at Kiyoomi’s pouty face, “can’t I?”

Kiyoomi responds with a stern glare, _don’t patronize me_. Mari sighs wearily, placing a featherlight touch to his arm on her way past. 

“Enjoy darling, it is your night after all!” She strolls towards the stairs, an attendant quickly coming over to escort her down. Kiyoomi tears his gaze back to the dance floor, looking for someone he doesn’t recognize. Unfortunately given his minimal social interaction during these sorts of events, most everyone looks like a stranger. It doesn’t stop Kiyoomi from furiously searching the crowd anyway, looking for something, _anything_ , as if the mysterious assassin would be holding up a dagger to flag him down. 

After searching so extensively his eyes begin to ache, Kiyoomi pushes back from the railing and shuffles towards the stairs. An attendant offers a hand but he waves it away with a grimace. He takes a fistful of his robe and hikes it up just a few inches off the ground before descending the stairs in a hurry. Once he’s down on the dance floor, Kiyoomi realizes how much more overwhelming it is from up close. From above he could imagine the sensation of being crowded beyond belief, unable to stretch his limbs without bumping into another’s. While that thought holds true, it's incomparably offensive in person. The sheer volume of people scuttling across the wooden flooring while engaging in their own jubilant chatter, the swell of the music seeping between drifting bodies, the oppressively wet heat of the throng of people stuck together in perpetual motion, the incredible speed and ceaseless movement that makes Kiyoomi dizzy just looking on, is staggering. It immediately forces him a step back, a hair outside of the madness, to regain his footing. In one last futile attempt, the prince cranes his neck to try and catch a glimpse of the faces at a lesser distance. 

There, at the edge of his vision, he catches the tips of two horns poking from a crimson mask, a knot of blonde hair, the wicked blaze of a golden eye, beckoning. Kiyoomi would normally think it nothing of note, just another fuzzy image caught in passing. But the split-second image plays in slow-motion, in all its achingly blurry detail. 

Like a man possessed, Kiyoomi dares one step, then another, and another, sinking into the crowd until it closes around him. He wades through the densely packed mass slowly at first, but soon Kiyoomi finds himself swept up in the chaos, stumbling and spinning to dodge the couples around him. From a distance, they always looked so graceful, but in the midst of it all, they are much more clumsy than he had imagined. 

Kiyoomi slips past one, ducks behind another, quickly losing his breath from keeping up with the breakneck pace. Soon he finds himself wondering which way he came to get here, and what way would let him out. As the anxiety creeping up his throat starts pushing against the heaviness on his chest, a hand clasps around his. 

Kiyoomi reels from the contact, ripping his arm away and bumping forcefully into a party-goer as they pass by. Kiyoomi turns to face his assailant with a wicked glare. Thanks to the narrowness of the mask around his eyes, the man before him can’t see Kyoomi’s black pupils dilate in intrigue, snuffing out the white around them to fill his sockets in darkness. 

Atsumu, hand still extended, drops a leg back to provide a far too formal curtsy. At its depth he tilts his chin up, flashing a fiendish grin from beneath the devilish mask. 

“Prince Kiyoomi,” he greets. 

“Why are you doing that?” Kiyoomi asks flatly. Atsumu rises, and Kiyoomi can see he’s just a few inches short of the prince’s own full height. 

“Thought ya royals liked being addressed,” Atsumu waves his hand, mentally reaching to find something more eloquent than: _like yer better than everyone else_ , “all fancy-like.” 

“What a… _unique_ accent,” Kiyoomi observes, recognizing the inflection from a few minutes ago, “where are you from?” Atsumu shrugs. 

“Around… what does it mean ta you?” now it’s Kiyoomi’s turn to shrug. 

“I’m just making conversation.” 

“Yer not very good at it,” Atsumu belittles, his heavy brows meeting in a frown.

“Neither are you,” Kiyoomi scoffs, “is that any way to speak to a prince?” He mocks. 

“Pretty boy’s gotta sense a humor, does he?” the blonde jeers, warmth spreading across his chest. The prince is exactly the flavor of intolerable he’d wished for. “I see you’ve saved me the dance we spoke of?” Atsumu, who’s been inching forward one step at a time, stretches a hand out to slip into Kiyoomi’s. 

But still, even knowing it’s coming, the price recoils from the contact, covering his wrist with his free hand in disdain.

“Oh? The porcelain prince doesn’t like to be touched, eh?” Kiyoomi seethes beneath the mask, hitching his upper lip, hand still clutched to his chest by the wrist. 

“Not by you.” Kiyoomi snaps, his inherent ability to turn his nose up in distaste baring its fangs wildly. 

“Really?” The masked demon extends his arm, cornering Kiyoomi with his back against the crowd swirling around them. He brings his finger, rough and callous up to trace the lines around and along Kiyoomi’s ear, brushing a single black curl behind it to do so. His touch settles onto the slightly elevated skin where a tiny black mole sits nestled beneath the helix. He removes his finger and lays the flat of his palm onto the nape of the prince’s neck, drawing him so close Kiyoomi can hear the wetness in his breath. 

“What does a guy hafta do to getcha ta change yer mind, _Omi_?” The informal sobriquet sends a dull shock through Kiyoomi’s skull, a bead of sweat collecting between the stacked moles above his brow. 

Atsumu slides a sneaking hand around Kiyoomi’s waist, twisting the fabric of his robe into a loosely half-closed fist. He skims the other over the curve of Kiyoomi’s shoulder, sliding it down the slope of his slack arm to nestle his thumb into the fold of Kiyoomi’s palm. Atsumu lifts the prince’s limp hand and shifts his own underneath it. 

“This is the part where ya put yer hand on my shoulder, Omi.”

“I’d rather not have a hand at all.”

“Fine,” Atsumu takes a deliberately large step to the side, dragging Kiyoomi along like a ragdoll in his grip, “have it yer way, yer highness.” One more step and another yank, and Kiyoomi carefully rests his hand on Atsumu’s shoulder, the touch so light Atsumu can only feel the tips of his fingers there. 

A few more stumbling steps follow before Atsumu leans his hip into Kiyoomi’s, guiding the prince’s languid movements to tune to his own remarkable fluidity. 

“Y’know yer surprisingly graceful fer having a stick up yer ass,” Atsumu jeers, tilting his head back to flaunt a lazy smirk, mischief glinting across golden irises. When Kiyoomi provides no response, his eyes flit down to graze over the prince’s parted, pink lips. “Y’know I could stick something else—” 

“You’d be significantly less repulsive if you didn’t say anything at all,” Kiyoomi seethes through his teeth. 

“Ya got a nasty habit a snarlin’ at me, I must really bring out tha animal in ya, huh?” Atsumu brings the palm of the hand snaked around Kiyoomi’s waist flush against his hip, pulling him into Atsumu’s chest. The sudden proximity sets their pace a rotation ahead of the couples around them, but Atsumu deftly maneuvers them around while keeping his eyes trained on Kiyoomi’s. Kiyoomi frowns, wrinkling the downturned corners of his mouth in a silent protest. 

“Shouldn’t a guy like ya be leadin’?” Atsumu challenges, angling his chin down to study Kiyoomi through a filter of amber lashes. “Ya like letting me do all the work?” 

“You seem to like being in charge... for once,” Kiyoomi lets the satisfaction of seeing Atsumu’s brows stitch together in aggravation curl his lips into a sly smile, “I get to rule a kingdom, the least I can do is let you spin me around like damsel for a few minutes, no?” 

“ _Tch_ , stupid royals,” Atsumu huffs. There’s something irritatingly familiar about him, Kiyoomi thinks. Like in a past life someone just as cocksure and bold had thrown him the same line. 

“You’re the one at my ball.”

“Nah, cause if I was anywhere near yer balls—”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi grunts, cursing the traitorous blush seeping out from behind the mask. Atsumu narrows his eyes, thick lashes casting shadows over honey irises. 

“I hate ya.” 

“ _I_ hate you.”

“Wanna go to yer private chambers?” 

“ _Obviously_ ,” Kiyoomi huffs, the sharp exhale of air from the corner of his mouth tickling the edge of a stray curl. Atsumu guides them, slowly but surely towards the outskirts of the dance floor. Kiyoomi silently revels at Atsumu’s flawless ability to navigate the hectic ballroom while matching the rhythm and pace of the song. 

“I wouldn’t expect someone like you to be such a competent dancer,” Kiyoomi admits through his teeth. 

“Leave it ta tha prince to wrap up a mediocre compliment in a shitty insult,” Atsumu retorts, causing Kiyoomi to roll his eyes in irritation. 

“Take what you get,” Kiyoomi snaps, just as the pair reach the edge of the crowd. Atsumu steps back onto the staircase, offering his other hand for Kiyoomi to take. Kiyoomi pointedly ignores it, lifting the hem of his robe once more to ascend the stairs, his other hand creeping up to Atsumu’s wrists to tug him along. Atsumu mumbles something unintelligible but likely foul under his breath as Kiyoomi drags him by the wrist up the stairs.

... 

Kiyoomi has never moved with such urgency in his life. Slipping past the guards was nothing impressive, but climbing the 6 stories to his bedroom was awestriking for Atsumu to see. Just from sharing a dance with the prince, he imagined that Kiyoomi didn’t tend to work at such a headlong pace.

“Nice room,” Atsumu huffs, trying to mask the shallowness of his tired breathing, “not as extravagant as I expected, but it’ll do.” 

“ _It’ll do_?” Kiyoomi echoes sourly, “do you have somewhere better in mind?” 

“There are a lotta places I’d love ta take care of ya, but like I said: _it’ll do,_ ” Atsumu repeats. He strolls leisurely across the area of the room, taking quick notes of anything he can. “Do ya just, lock yerself in here all day long or what?” He asks, picking up a book to examine its cover. 

“No,” Kiyoomi states. 

“So ya spend yer free time elsewhere?” 

“No.”

“Ya sure are an open book, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu chuckles. 

“Why do you insist on calling me that?” Kiyoomi asks, unable to quell the harsh bite in his tone. 

“It’s a term of endure-ment.” 

“Don’t you mean _endearment_?” 

“Nah, endure-ment, as in ya gotta endure it,” Atsumu grins proudly at Kiyoomi's disdainful scowl. “Why, didja want me to endear ya?” 

Kiyoomi scoffs, “hardly.” He props his back up against his bedpost, leaning his head back to rest it there. 

“Shame, I’m great at that kinda thing,” Atsumu, directly across the room from Kiyoomi, turns on his heel to face the expectant prince. 

“I’d like to see that,” Kiyoomi jokes, a cheeky grin curling up the corners of his lips. Atsumu closes the gap, slowly, then all at once, until they can feel the other’s breath on their lips.

“It's too bad,” Atsumu trails off, eyes cast onto Kiyoomi’s exposed neck. 

“Too bad?” 

“Too bad,” Atsumu echoes, “in another life, maybe I coulda shown ya.”

With punishing speed, Atsumu pushes Kiyoomi up against the wooden bedpost, painfully shoving his spine into its edge. He draws his severely sharp dagger, red leather wrapped around the hilt, up to press into the vulnerable skin of the prince’s neck. Neither says a word for a moment, realizing the gravity of their brief and tentative relationship coming to its climax.

“Somethin’ tells me ya knew this was comin’,” Atsumu points out, somewhat disappointed in the prince’s flat expression. 

“What makes you say that?” Kiyoomi inquires with a dry chuckle, laughter so dull it could pass as a cough.

“Ya don’t seem very surprised,” 

“I’m not,” Kiyoomi admits, glancing down at the knife at the brink of what his vision allows. 

“Which means you know what happens next.” 

“Are you not going to give me a final request? A gift to the dearly departed?” Atsumu considers this.

“Depends on whatcha want.” Slowly as not to spook the wild beast with his knee in Kiyoomi’s stomach, the prince brings his gloved hand up to the back of Atsumu’s head. Atsumu watches the hand with narrowed eyes, uncertain if it's a threat. Kiyoomi hesitates,

“Just to see the man who will take my life,” he pauses for permission, smiling faintly in the sureness that his request will be granted. Atsumu provides a tight nod, which is consent enough for Kiyoomi to tug the knot loose. He catches the mask with his other hand, pulling it back slowly to reveal what’s beneath. 

A strangled noise escapes Kyoomi’s throat. 

“Miya,” he utters, coughing the name out like it’s caught in his throat. The blonde’s face, previously devilishly smug, falls slack at the utterance on his family name. The demonic mask clatters to the floor loudly, before the heavy silence lays uncomfortably around them. 

“How didja—” Kiyoomi hastily brings his hands up to pull the ribbon loose. Hands still behind his head, Atsumu lifts his free hand, blade still flush against the prince’s neck, to lift the mask off. 

“Wait a minute,” the gears in Atsumu’s head whir loudly with effort as he searches Kiyoomi’s face, his brain function coming to halt with the conclusion, “yer that guy… obviously not usin’ yer real name, huh?” 

“Obviously not,” Kiyoomi breathes. “You didn’t happen to mention you were an assassin then either, though.” 

“Well at the time I _wasn’t_ , not really,” Atsumu sneers. Both of their minds are flooded with vivid memories of two teenage boys, alone in a crowded plaza. One was too tall and gangly for his age. The other was just as falsely confident and independent.

~ 

_Atsumu kicks the ground angrily. No sight of ‘Samu, probably distracted by a food stand. Regardless, Atsumu was alone with no one to keep his idle mind entertained. He hops up onto the nearest stall, much to the shop attendant’s protest, to get a bird’s eye view of the plaza. Everything in the world is Atsumu’s playground, and this market is no exception. Arms crossed defiantly, even with no one and nothing to defy, Atsumu scans the bustling crowds, anything to catch his eye._

_There, in the edge of his vision, a swathe of black curls harsh against pale skin pulled tightly back, endless and abyssal black eyes, with arms drawn into himself. What reason could anybody have to be cowering like that in broad daylight?_

_This question grabs Atsumu’s fickle attention enough to pull him down from his post and towards the small huddled figure. Upon closer inspection, the young boy was dressed in a simple blue cloak, which he tugged into himself by the fists, with 2 now visible black moles stacked above his right brow._

_“Hey!” Atsumu shouts, too loud, too much. Kiyoomi ignores the calls, not realizing the obnoxious teenager is addressing him. “Hey you! Black hair, creepy lookin’,” Kiyoomi finally glances up at the racket, fear flickering in his eyes at the blonde-haired boy quickly approaching him. Atsumu stops a few feet short, craning his neck forward to fully examine Kiyoomi._

_“Whatcha lookin’ all scared for, huh?” Atsumu tips his nose up, trying to look down on the much taller boy._

_“Why do you care?” Kiyoomi scoffs, visibly turning away from the interaction._

_“It’s my marketplace,” Atsumu jabs a thumb into his chest, “it’s my business when yer lookin’ creepy an sad in tha corner all alone.”_

_“It’s not your marketplace,” Kiyoomi quips, tone growing sharper._

_“An how would ya know that?” Atsumu challenges._

_“Doesn’t the royal family own the market place?”_

_“Tch, stupid royals,” Atsumu pouts, jutting out his bottom lip sourly, “They can’t own what they don’t even know exists. I bet they don’t even leave their castle…” Atsumu takes a bold step closer, “an ya didn’t answer my question.”_

_“I’m—” Kiyoomi hesitates, trying to ascertain any semblance of ulterior motive in the strange boy’s arrogant demeanor. Upon discerning, even in his adolescence, that Atsumu is the same on the inside as he is on the outside, Kiyoomi sighs, “I’m lost.”_

_“How do ya get lost?” Atsumu asks, gesturing to the rather admittedly small market place, “Whaddaya live under a rock or somethin’?” Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, just glowers. “Fine, where do ya need ta go?” Kiyoomi pauses, then,_

_“Do you know where the Ozawa Castle is? I live nearby there…”_

_Atsumu grunts, “Of course I do,” and turns on his heel and begins to walk in the apparent direction of the road, calling behind him, “c’mon!”_

_Kiyoomi scurries along to follow, keeping a few feet between them at all times._

_“I’m Atsumu by the way, Atsumu Miya.”_

_“Miya,” Kiyoomi echoes._

_“Nah, Atsumu,” he corrects, “you’ll confuse me with my brother.”_

_“I don’t know your brother.” Kiyoomi points out, eliciting a heavy sigh from Atsumu._

_“Fine, Miya, whatever. What didja say yer name was?”_

_“K—” Kiyoomi stops, thinking better of revealing his name in the crowded plaza, “K-Komori.”_

_“Komori… ya gotta first name or is that yer first name?”_

_“Just Komori.”_

_“Alright ‘Just Komori’,” Atsumu mocks, “whatcha doing wanderin’ around alone anyhow?”_

_“I got separated from my guardian,” Kiyoomi admits, “I don’t wander alone.”_

_“Clearly,” Atsumu jokes. Atsumu turns to inspect the prince’s face closer like he’s two seconds away from knowing something he really shouldn’t if Kiyoomi wants to get home on time._

_“Looking for something?” Kiyoomi snaps, turning his face away from Atsumu just to avoid his pervasive gaze._

_“Just lookin’,” Atsumu shrugs, “can’t a guy enjoy the view?” Kiyoomi can’t help the pink collecting across his cheeks. They walk in silence for a block or two before Atsumu thinks he might combust from the quiet._

_“Ya don’t talk much do ya?”_

_“No, not really,” Kiyoomi admits._

_“It’s a shame,” Atsumu suggests, glancing up at Kiyoomi, “ya gotta nice voice.”_

_“Are you flirting with me?”_

_“Yeah,” Atsumu says, like it should have been obvious 5 blocks ago._

_“Oh,” Kiyoomi whispers. “Why?”_

_“Yeesh, I dunno,” Atsumu exhales through his teeth, sinking his hands deeper into his pockets, “cause I want ta?”_

_“Oh.” The pair continue to make their way across the city, Atsumu making small conversation and Kiyoomi responding in few enough words to keep Atsumu wondering if this was the poor man’s attempt at flirting back. Once the castle is well within sight, Kiyoomi slows his pace to halt._

_“I think I can get home from this point,” Kiyoomi says, eyes trained on the castle._

_“Well if yer sure ya can handle it from here, ‘Mori,” Kiyoomi nods curtly. “Then my work here is done.”_

_Once Atsumu has already taken off back down the road once more, Kiyoomi calls,_

_“Miya!” Atsumu stops to turn back, the surprise evident in his wide eyes. “Thanks.” Atsumu nods, giving a small wave before turning back to disappear around the corner._

_Even while the guards are ushering him in, fawning over the—momentarily— lost prince, Kiyoomi can’t help but think about Atsumu. Atsumu, the first and only person to flirt with Kiyoomi out of nothing but attraction, no political strings attached. It wouldn’t be an encounter he would soon forget._

~ 

“Yer just as thick in tha head now as ya were then,” Atsumu jeers.

“You’re one to talk,” Kiyoomi retorts, “I’ve never met anyone so dense in my entire life.” 

“Remind me why ya invited a man whose name ya don’t even know up ta yer private chambers?” Atsumu queries, digging the flat edge of the dagger into Kiyoomi’s chin to tilt it upwards. 

“I didn’t need to know your name to know you sent those letters,” he admits with an arrogant glint in his eye. “You’re very… how do I say, _distinct/em >?” _

“So ya knew it was me. That’s more reason not to bring me here, so why?” Kiyoomi doesn’t respond, but his expression of confidence and awe remains. “Ya don’t think I’ll do it do ya?” 

“So far, I’m correct,” Kiyoomi gloats, bringing his tongue forward to swipe over his cold-chapped lips, “go on, prove me wrong.” 

Atsumu shifts the edge of the blade into the underside of Kiyoomi's chin, and Kiyoomi, in turn, leans forward into it, eyes feral. 

The prince’s rabid eagerness— the wild glint in his eye, lips parted like he’s got something on the tip of his tongue— is wildly unsettling. Around this point victims are usually pleading, if he’s lucky there’ll be tears, maybe a mention of families. Even the most determined crack under the frigid chill of iron, but the curious and even keen tilt of Kiyoomi’s neck into his blade is anything but broken. What kind of sick twist in Atsumu’s mind exists so that his ideal target is one who lives just as much for the thrill of the hunt as himself? 

Atsumu leans forward into Kiyoomi, not with his dagger but with his chest, closing the space between their lips. At first, the kiss is tentative, sweet even. Atsumu runs the tip of his tongue over the barely chapped surface of Kiyoomi’s upper lip. He hesitates there, torturously hung in limbo waiting for the prince’s response. In a few shallow breaths, Kiyoomi leans down into the kiss, slipping his bottom lip into Atsumu’s waiting mouth. He sucks tenderly on Atsumu’s top lip, gently tugging it between his teeth. Atsumu exhales weakly in relief, his breath stuttering hotly across Kiyoomi’s flushed cheeks. 

“Yer still a royal brat.” 

“I’m still correct,” Kiyoomi grins smugly into the kiss, braving a less tentative, bruising bite into Atsumu’s captive upper lip. “Are you still enjoying the view?” Atsumu grunts in response, frowning against Kiyoomi’s lips. 

“What’s with the gloves?” Atsumu questions, beginning to tug at the fabric covering his fingers. Kiyoomi smacks his hand away harshly. 

“I don’t like dirty things,” he snaps, reaching his hands up to pull at the hem of Atsumu’s pants. Atsumu bucks his hips forward into Kiyoomi’s groin, drawing a slight whine from Kiyoomi’s throat. Atsumu finally casts the dagger carelessly to the side, not paying any mind as it clangs across the floor. 

“Ya may be a clean freak for everyone else but you’ll get down n’ dirty for me won’t ya?” Atsumu growls into Kiyoomi’s teeth, earning him a discontented grunt. “Yer nothing like I’d expect a prince to be, I didn’t think you’d be so immodest.” 

“Well you are nothing like your first letter,” Kiyoomi curls his nose up in distaste at the way Atsumu grins stupidly against his neck. “Just a griping little brat with no sense of drama or _fantasy_.” 

“Oh, an I know all yer doing is scrunching up yer nose at the thought a me! Is turning yer nose up the only thing ya royals know how ta do?” Atsumu nips at the reddening skin to turn it from pink to plum. “Turn it up all you want Omi, yer missing out on a hell of a dish.” Atsumu hoists Kiyoomi up by the backs of his thighs, tossing him back onto the bed. Atsumu clambers up to plant his hands on either side of Kiyoomi’s dazed head, pinning him in place with spread thighs. 

"I fer one am not skipping any meals,” Atsumu clashes against Kiyoomi’s bared teeth, leaning down on his elbows to coil his fingers through inky black curls. Atsumu tugs Kiyoomi’s head up, exposing the trickle of purple creeping down the side of his neck. Diligently picking up where he left off, Atsumu violently grinds down into Kiyoomi, earning him a feeble whimper in return. 

“You're certainly not,” Kiyoomi grunts, pushing back fruitlessly against Atsumu’s weight with his hips. 

“Innit improper for someone like ya to be getting ‘tween the sheets with a traitor to the kingdom?” Atsumu sneers, dragging his fingernails up Kyoomi’s pale, glassy thighs, hiking his robes up as he goes. 

Kiyoomi takes a fistful of Atsumu’s blonde hair, shoving 2 fingers of his other gloved hand into Atsumu’s mouth. The taste of leather sliding into his wet, drooling mouth, the weight resting heavily on his eager tongue, draws an involuntary whine from Atsumu’s throat. Kiyoomi, hooks his fingers behind Atsumu’s teeth, pulling him down by the mouth. Into his open, panting maw, Kyoomi breathes the words to the tune of a gravely moan: 

“I’m not opposed to heresy.” 

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is my first ever AU, and also the work I am most nervous about going into this week. That being said I had the best time writing it and I am so happy with the results! 
> 
> If you have the chance I highly recommend exploring SakuAtsu Week submissions here and on Twitter because there are so incredibly talented people producing some amazing things! Can't wait to share my next 2 pieces later in the week :)
> 
> -Grace 
> 
> Ps if you wanna yell with me about these jerks I am @honeybakedyams on twitter!


End file.
